


Live Together, Die Alone

by say-when-swan (rainydaze)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Desert Island Fic, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydaze/pseuds/say-when-swan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LOST AU.  Emma Swan, Lt. Killian Jones and the other passengers of Storybrooke Air Flight 815 crash land on a seemingly deserted island.  They must work together to survive or they might just not make it off the island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emma

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry if you haven't seen the show, this fic won't ruin anything. There will be general themes that are the same and you may recognize some character types but I tried not to copy it too closely. I'm not sure how long it's going to be yet, but I'm hoping it will last me through the hiatus.

_The wind roared as they dropped and shook, but all she could hear was screaming as they fell down, down -_

Emma gasps back to the world of consciousness, eyes fluttering as she stares at the blue sky peeking out from beyond a forest of green rising above her. A few fluffy white clouds chug past as she wills the world to stop spinning. She sits up gingerly, frowning at the way her shirt sticks to her back. The dirt beneath her is damp and she reaches around her back to pull the wet fabric from her skin for a moment of relief, reeling slightly from the simple movement.

Emma slept in odd places throughout her teenage years and woken in odder places after a few inebriated nights, but never has she felt the overwhelming sense of bewilderment and utter disorientation that comes with her current predicament.

Her head aches, along with every muscle in her body, and as her racing heart slows, her battered brain starts to sift through the mess of memories to figure why _the hell_  she's woken on her back in a jungle.

Just as memories of the violent shaking and stomach dropping plummets seep back and bile starts to rise in the back of her throat, something rustles in the large patch of ferns in front of her.

Tigers, panthers and other jungle beasts prowl in the shadows of her imagination and she tenses, ready to jump out of her skin at the first hint of death by wild animal. A shiver forces it's way down her spine and shocks her into some form of movement. Carefully, Emma casts her hands around for anything - a rock, a sharp stick, even a spork from the inflight food service - she can use to defend herself. She grits her teeth, she just survived a goddamn  _plane crash_ , there's no way she's going to die as Tigger's next meal.

The plants shake more fiercely and Emma starts to stand, nothing but palm fronds grasped in her fists, the dirt devoid of anything that could pass as a weapon.

She makes it halfway to her feet before the creature leaps out of the bushes. She tries to turn and run but trips over her unsteady feet. Her arms windmill for a second before she goes down hard on her ass. Breath wheezing and defenseless, she flings the palm fronds in a last ditch effort to confuse the beast and curls her arms around her head and neck. But when seconds pass and she doesn't feel the excruciating pain of claws or teeth, she cautiously peeks out from behind her arms and finds she's face to face with an extremely shocked Dalmatian.

Relief floods Emma's veins and she smiles, letting out a short, jittery laugh. "Sorry, buddy," she assures him, voice rasping slightly, as she reaches out a cautious hand to touch his spotted fur, "I thought you were going to eat m-"

Just as her fingers reaches his head, he skitters away with a yelp and bolts, crashing back through the underbrush.

_Great._

Emma pushes up the rest of the way to her feet, swaying slightly, and a sharp sting at her arm sends her eyes downwards.  _Right, that._

Still attached to her wrist from the flight were the set of handcuffs she'd been shackled in. Before the turbulence overwhelmed her, she'd stolen the key and unlocked her right hand, but her left is a different story. The metal cuff carved a jagged path along her wrist and the ragged cut stings furiously now that it has her full attention.

Quickly digging in her pocket, she desperately hopes that the key hasn't fallen out. She'd had just enough sense to shove it her jeans rather than hold it as they went down. Breathing a small cry of triumph as her fingers close around the small key, she quickly makes work of the cuff, flinging it away as soon as it unlocks.

Blowing gently at her wound, she glances around and sees nothing but green. Bamboo stalks shoot up around her broken by patches of large palm trees and tropical ferns. She notices for the first time that she's sweaty and that the humidity is pressing down on her, the air moist and unpleasant in her lungs.

The silence around her is unnerving, only interrupted by her rapid breathing and the occasional squawk of a tropical bird. The panic she'd swallowed down earlier rises again until she can't stay in this oppressive tangled mess of plants for a second longer.

She starts to run, blindly shoving through the bamboo and wincing as leaves slice at her face. She bites down on her lip hard, fighting to keep a sob from bursting from her lips. It's all too much.

All at once she's out of the jungle and onto a beach, stumbling over soft, white sand in the blinding light of the very welcome sun.

She stutters to a halt, taking in the waves gently rolling to shore before closing her eyes. The breeze off the water feels soothing on her sweat drenched skin and she sighs as she digs a hairband from her jeans. She twists her hair into a bun and sighs again, glad to have it off her neck.

A distant scream breaks her moment of peace. Her eyes snap open and she listens intently until another scream sends her running down the beach to her left. Her muscles protest every time she takes a stride but she can't just sit and listen to the agony of the other passengers.

Only the carnage shown in movies and the occasional HBO show could have prepared her for what lay around the curve of the shoreline. The remnants of the winged portion of the plane lay strewn about on the sand before her, one wing creaking, pointing up at the sky. Beside it, an engine still roars, coughing and sputtering as black smoke billows through it. Even at a distance it is horrifying, and she can see motionless bodies scattered and the living darting about the ruins. The wind carries the sound of screaming and crying towards her, so loud she can hear it over the deafening engine.

She takes in the scene at a complete loss of what to do, her extent of medical knowledge is extremely limited, like put-a-bandaid-on-it limited. Or if it's a big cut - a really big band aid. She doesn't know anything that can help at this scale.

The person closest to her is smaller than most, stumbling slightly through the sand around the perimeter of the wreckage. A gust of wind brings a child's voice to her ears, and Emma realizes that they're just a kid, a boy screaming for his mother.

Though she doesn't have a maternal bone in her body she springs into action, heart aching at the thought of a terrified child alone. Even she can't relate to going through something like this as a kid and she has plenty of unpleasant experiences to choose from.

As Emma reaches him, she gently lays a hand on his shoulder, not wanting to startle the boy further. But still he jumps, and turns to her with wide brown eyes full of hope. It breaks her heart when the hope is washed away by disappointment and fresh tears spilling from his eyes.

"Hey, kid," she says soothingly, "I'm sorry I'm not your mom, but maybe I could help you look for her?"

He nods with a sniffle.

She swipes a thumb across his forehead where she sees a cut, but it's shallow and already stopped bleeding. His face is dirty and his hair is a caked sandy mess but he seems to be alright.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" she asks, with what she hopes a reassuring expression on her face.

He shakes his head, "No, I'm ok."

"Good," she scans over his clothing just in case, but there's no sign of blood. She looks up the beach towards the trees and sees a group of people clumped together, "Why don't we go check over by them?" she asks, already laying a soft hand on his back and steering him in that direction. They were standing too close to the fuselage and that engine for her liking.

The kid nods dumbly, not shouting for his mother anymore, and the blank expression on his face worries Emma. Maybe she should keep him talking.

"What's your mom's name? Maybe she'll hear that?" she wonders, taking the boy in a wide berth around an immobile body in the sand, hoping he wasn't looking.

"Her name is Regina," the boy says in a small voice.

With an awkward squeeze to his shoulder, she suggests, "I think we should both call for her, I'm sure she's looking for you too."

He nods, looking up at her with wide eyes, "My name is -"

"HENRY!"

Someone grabs Emma's wrist and yanks her away from the boy, her torn skin shrieking at the touch.

"That's my son, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Off kilter, she manages to turn and sees a woman, Regina - most likely, who has the boy in an embrace and a glare fixed on her. Her hair is a windswept mess, but her blood red lipstick is still perfect and her dark eyes burn through Emma. What is wrong with this woman?

"I was just - I -" Emma fumbles, not really sure why she was being attacked.

"It's ok, Mom," came the boy's muffled voice from his mother's arms, "She was helping me find you."

The woman's eyes narrow, "Just stay away from him," she hisses and stalks away, herding the boy - Henry - in front of her. He shoots her a grateful look over his shoulder before his mother ushers him further away, leaving her alone.

A young woman off to her right with a very swollen belly on her hands and knees catches her eye. She's very close to the wreckage and the flames on the nearby engine are growing larger. She can't hear her from this distance but she's definitely shouting.

Emma runs over, kicking up sand. As she kneels down next to her she can feel the heat from the fire.

"My baby, my baby -" The pregnant woman gasps and clutches at Emma's arm, eyes frightened and clenching in pain, "I need David."

"We'll find him," she assures, practically shouting to be heard over the engine, glancing up nervously at the wing extended above them. No matter what, they needed to move.

" _Oh god_ ," the woman cries out, grasping her arm tighter, "I think the baby is coming."

This could _not_  get any worse.

An ominous creaking sounds over their heads as soon as the errant thought enters her brain and she looks up, a pit forming in her stomach. The metal attaching the wing to the body of the plane is starting to snap.

They definitely need to move.

"What's your name?" Emma asks the woman, trying to sound as calm as possible.

"Mary Margaret," the woman bites out through another spasm of pain.

"Ok, Mary Margaret, we need to get up right now," Emma orders, eyes glued to the wing above them, " I can help you walk but we really don't want to stay here any longer."

The metal groans louder as Emma grabs Mary Margaret under her arms and hauls her up as best she can. She half drags the woman through the sand, out of the shadow of the wing.

Their departure comes not a moment too soon. With one last screeching crack the wing drops to the earth, the resulting crash setting off a violent chain reaction. Hot air rushes at them with enough force to knock them off their feet. Emma lands head first in the sand, flinching as flaming chunks of metal streak through the air around them.

After the last scrap plunges to the sand, Emma sits up, still sheltering her face. The beach is much quieter now, the explosion decimated the engine and the only sounds are the cries of the other passengers and those of the ocean.

The woman beside her groans and pushes herself up into a sitting position, clutching at her stomach, as her eyes screw up she gasps out, "I'm definitely having contractions."

"How many months pregnant are you?" Emma asks urgently, if she was really about to have this baby they need to find a doctor or a passenger much more qualified to play midwife than she is.

"I'm only eight months…" She bites out, "Are you a doctor?" She asks hopefully.

"No," Emma shrugged, "But when I was seven months pregnant, I… uh I got in a car accident and I thought I started having contractions."

"You weren't?"

"Not exactly, but the impact caused something to feel like it. But it's very important that you are very calm and sit absolutely still if you don't want to have this baby right now, okay?" Emma tells her, leaving out the the part where she very well might go into labor anyway.

"Breathe," Mary Margaret whispers to herself as she stills, shooting a nervous glance at her belly.

Other than the possibly induced labor, she is in a remarkably good condition. The only outward sign of injury is a scrape on her cheek and various bruises on her arms. Her dress is stained and tattered, but every other passenger is in that same position.

"You said you were pregnant?" Mary Margaret asks in a small, trembling voice, "Your baby wasn't with you was it?"

Emma looks away from her concerned gaze, pulling a thread from a rip in her jeans, "No," she replies quietly, "He's not here."

Mary Margaret lays a reassuring hand on her arm and tries to give her a small smile, even as a silent tear spills from the corner of her eye, "Well that's something to be thankful for. I'm sure we'll be rescued and you can see him soon."

Emma rips out a particularly offending thread, stoutly ignoring the woman's kind eyes. She was taking the time to worry about her, a complete stranger, when she had her own family to worry about.

"Who's David?" She twists a denim thread between her fingers.

The other woman drags her fingers through her pixie cut, "He's, he's the father and I haven't seen him since… the crash," she finally stutters, a nervous hand fluttering to her stomach.

Emma nods, she knows she's supposed to say something encouraging but the placations stick in her throat. It's one thing to give a kid some hope, but she isn't sure she can come across sincere to someone who knows the odds. There are too many bodies on this beach for everyone's loved ones to be safe and sound.

"Could you look for him for me?"

Emma glances up, rather surprised at the request.

Noting her expression, Mary Margaret continues, "It's just that I can't," she gestures to her stomach, "And I know he's looking for me and -"

But Emma was already on her feet, "What should I be looking for?"

Mary Margaret almost looks taken aback at how hurriedly she's agreed, but quickly recovers. "He's tall, over six feet with coloring, well, almost like yours but his hair is a little darker. And his name is David Nolan."

Emma nods, already scanning the beach, "I'll come back in a few minutes to check on you."

"He was wearing a green plaid shirt with a white t-shirt."

"Got it." Emma starts off across the sand, leaving Mary Margaret to look forlornly after her, eyes dry but tear tracks still leaving shining marks on her cheeks.

She heads in the general direction Henry and his mother went, towards the group of people near the tree line, ignoring the people darting around her. None of them are wearing green. She does a double take when a man in a suit runs past, but no, it's not  _him_. His blond hair is much different than the dark, wiry hair of the man she desperately never wants to see again.

More cautious now, she moves through the sea of people, occasionally calling David's name, but she doesn't see anyone who remotely fits his description. The chatter and crying of so many people quickly sends her away and toward the fuselage. There are still small fires burning amongst the metal but the thick black smoke from the engine has largely dissipated, leaving behind an acrid stench in the ocean breeze.

A scrap of green catches her eye. Half buried in the sand, impaled of what looks to be the remains of a collapsible suitcase handle is a green plaid shirt. Gingerly she grabs its sleeve and it tears free. She turns it in her hands and her heart sinks as she sees it's stained with patches of red.

As she debates whether she should just pretend she never saw it or bring it to Mary Margaret, a shout rises and she looks up. In the shadow of the fuselage the same man in a suit shouts for help. "There's someone trapped!"

Making the decision, Emma drops the shirt, kicking some sand over it and runs to help the man. As she reaches him, she hears another man moaning in pain, his legs traps under one of the ruined plane wheels.

"I'm a doctor, I can help him," the suited man was saying to a slim woman with long, dark hair, "We need people to lift this up so we can pull him out."

"I can help," Emma broke in, earning a nod from the other two, "But we'll need more people to lift."

They press an smartly-dressed, older man into service as he limps past. He, the doctor and Emma shuffle into place, gripping bits of the wheel that wouldn't slice their hands as the other woman grabs the trapped mans hands ready to pull him loose.

"On three," the doctor orders, "One…"

Emma digs her feet into the sand, the last things she wants to do is lose her footing and cause herself, or anyone else further injury. She's not even lifting yet and the metal is digging into her hands uncomfortably. She attempts to shift her grip into something less painful but the torn metal doesn't offer an adequate grip.

"Two… Three…"

Emma strains, doing her best to lift with her knees. A bead of sweat drips across her temples and her hands slip slightly on the hot metal as it slowly sinks into her skin. She forces herself to breathe and throws all her strength into lifting, but either they're too exhausted or the damn wheel is too much for the three of them. It hasn't even moved off the ground.

Someone quickly slides into the space next to her, their hands brushing hers as they join the effort. With their added strength, they lift the wheel just enough for the man to be pulled free.

Before she can turn and thank the newcomer, the man they'd saved let out a stifled scream. She whips around and presses a hand to her mouth as she sees where one of his legs used to be. Blood pours onto the sand, but already the doctor is undoing his tie and wrapping it around his thigh. Forming a tourniquet, the bleeding abates and he turns to the younger woman and the older man.

"I need you to watch him and find a cloth, as clean as you can to help with the bleeding."

When he stands and wipes his bloodied hands on his pants, Emma approaches him, "I was just with a pregnant woman and she thinks she's having contractions, do you think you could -"

"Pregnant?"

Emma turns and is met with the exact description of Mary Margaret's David. He towers over both her and the doctor and his classically handsome face is marred with lines of worry.

"David?" Emma guesses and he nods as affirmation. "She's over here, follow me."

She leads him and the doctor to the other side of the fuselage where Mary Margaret is still sitting, but hangs back as they run towards her.

"Mary Margaret!"

"David?"

He crashes to his knees on the sand in front of her, wrapping her up in a hug and then they're talking to each other in rushed voices, broken by a kiss or two. Fresh tears are running down her face and she seems torn between smiling and sobbing, a hand still on her stomach.

Emma swallows down the lump in her throat and silently skirts the couple. She passes other survivors as she walks away, a pretty brunette dabbing at the head wound of a bookish, ginger man. She catches a glimpse of Henry and his mother sitting on a large bit of driftwood silently watching the activity before them. A woman with copper hair strides from the jungle, stopping to help an elderly woman sift through some luggage. A rather handsome man with curly brown hair stacks wood as if he's going to build a bonfire, maybe to catch the eye of a rescue party. But she doesn't join them, needing a moment to herself.

As she passes him the man calls out in a strong Irish accent, "Would you grab some wood on your way back?" She pauses for a moment and he gives her a small smile, "If you can, of course. The name's Graham, just find me."

Emma nods silently, any words she might have said caught in her throat, and tries to force her mouth into anything that might resemble a smile. Her lips won't move though and after a moment, he turns back to his work.

And then she's stumbling away, weight pressing at her heart. Almost as desperate to escape these people as she wanted to find some in the jungle, she breaks into a jog. She only stops when the sounds of the other passengers can't be heard on the wind and the wreckage is barely silhouetted by the sun far away down the beach. Her lungs burn and a muscle in her leg is cramping.

She wants to hit something, she wants to scream, she wants to sink down into the sand and cry. But there's nothing to hit but sand or the very hard trunk of a palm tree and her ears are still ringing from the screams of the other passengers. Besides, there's something about the quiet breeze and the gentle waves that makes this all seem a little better. But it's not enough and so she collapses to her knees, because she survived and she's here, but that fear is still clawing at her throat.

Through blurred eyes Emma glances farther down the shore and up to the jungle covered mountains looming in the distance. The pressure is still pressing at her chest and she can't hold back the choked sob that tears out of her. At least they couldn't have crashed in a more beautiful place.

Pressing her lips firmly together, she takes in the picturesque little beach, the sun is sitting low in the sky and casting an orangey glow on the otherwise azure water. A dark form at the water's edge catches her eye and with a sinking heart she hopes it's just driftwood, but at second glance there's no mistaking the shape of a body.

She shoots a plea up to the heavens,  _don't be dead, don't be dead_ , as she rises to her feet. Dragging one foot after the other she makes her way through the sand, eyes squinting, hoping for some sign of life.

They were face down, unmoving, in some sort of uniform, (the pilot maybe?). Clearly male, his sweep of dark hair still soaked. She kneels down next to the body carefully, knowing that if he moves unexpectedly she will have a heart attack. She gently grasps the waterlogged sleeve of his uniform and pulls. He rolls limply onto his side, revealing his sand encrusted face. He doesn't appear to be breathing.

She's never been trained in CPR, but Emma has seen enough TV to know the general idea. Rolling him further onto his back, she laces her hands together and places them on his chest at his sternum. Or does she breathe first?

Hesitating, she moves to his face and quickly brushes off the sand near his mouth. She tilts his head back, remembering it's important from some medical procedural -  _at least she hopes they weren't making it up_  - and pinches his nose shut. Taking a deep breath, she leans down and presses her mouth to his.

Emma's barely blows a half breath when a shudder runs through his body and he jerks up. She pulls away just as he spits up water across his shoulder, lungs wheezing and coughs wracking his chest. Relieved, she sits back on her heels, hand still gripping his uniformed chest.

"You're ok," she breathes, half to reassure herself, "It's ok, you're ok."

He lets out a few more sputtered coughs, before collapsing on his back, chest heaving. His hand snakes up and grips hers on his chest like his life depends on it, and finally as she leans further over him to brush more sand off his face, his eyes blink open and meet hers. Emma swears they're the bluest she's ever seen.


	2. Killian

_Killian chuckled to himself as another wave of turbulence hit. Predictably, Liam seemed intent on throttling his armrest, muttering under his breath. In contrast, Killian lounged comfortably in his seat – they were in business class after all – things could be much worse._

_"Not a word," Liam growled, his eyes still shut as he braced against his seat as though it might forcibly discharge him._

_"You all right there, brother?" Killian asked, the picture of innocence despite the small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth._

_Not amused, Liam gave him a sidelong glance before he huffed and grumbled, "You know I hate flying."_

_Killian bit his tongue, hate was an understatement. Flying was the only thing on Earth that Liam seemed to fear. He was a brave leader, capable of weathering any storm and leading his crew through dangerous assault missions and he was better at almost everything than his younger brother. Killian loved flying, his third love only to the sea and the stars. So when occasions like this arose it was difficult to resist prodding the bear just a little bit._

_But pushing down his baser urge to tease Liam further, he took pity on his elder brother, "Only another ten hours," he said, shrugging slightly, "Then you can stay away from flying as long as you wish."_

_Liam groaned, "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Ten more hours of this bloody shaking about?"_

_Although not unexpected, the swearing was a sign of his unusually high level of stress. They served in the Royal Navy where ribald language was found in abundance, but Liam always met the strictest standards of propriety and had tried to instill the same sense in Killian. It worked... to an extent._

_Perhaps another approach was required._

_"You know," Killian whispered conspiratorially, "Perhaps to take your mind off this turbulence, you could tell me what in this mysterious satchel."_

_"Oh to take my mind off it?" Liam raised his eyebrows, but Killian only shot him an earnest grin. "Ah, well, I suppose I won't make you suffer any longer."_

_He undid his seatbelt and leaned over to rifle with the satchel in his foot space. He'd gone out one afternoon when they'd had some free time and he wouldn't tell Killian anything about the contents of the satchel, only that "he'd find out soon enough." But now the moment of truth. Liam brought out the slightly worn but well-crafted leather case. His fingers drummed on a metal placard sewn into the front._

_"Killian," he said, his voice gruffer than usual, "I just wanted you to have this and for you know how proud I am of you. And Rosie too, she'd kill me if I didn't mention that."_

_Killian laughed as he took the satchel from him, "Aye, she would." He scratched behind his ear, "Well, I'd be nowhere without you." He shot him a quick grin. The gravity of the gesture aside, he didn't want to have a tearful brotherly moment in view of quite so many people. (The woman across the aisle already looked like she might be choking up)._

_"All I did was give you a push in the right direction," Liam replied, even though they both knew that wasn't true. He dropped a hand down on the leather, "Now why don't you see what's inside? You've only pestered me about it for three bloody days."_

_Killian nodded, running his finger over the round placard. A crown over three suns were etched into the metal… He knew that heraldry._

_"You didn't," Killian breathed, his hands suddenly shaking in anticipation._

_Liam just laughed._

_Attempting to be gentle with the case, Killian flung open the latch and he couldn't help the way his jaw dropped at the gleaming, golden instrument inside._

_Killian was one of the few men in the Royal Navy that could navigate by the stars alone. Though in his work he used the technology available to them, he enjoyed the calculations and the movements of the stars on his leisure time. As such he had an unhealthy obsession with sailing relics of days past, especially those used in navigating. He already had a small collection of sextants, but this, this golden sextant would outshine any in his possession._

_Unlike most frames, this one was handsomely decorated, a leaping Pegasus standing amidst a field of strange constellations. The dials and levers slid the index arm smoothly across the graduated arc, where the angle measurement was smoothly etched into the gold. Its beauty aside, this particular sextant came from one of Killian's favorite sailing myths, and before now had only seemed a legend itself._

_"How -?" Killian gaped, raising a questioning gaze to Liam._

_His eyes twinkled but he only shook his head, "You'll have to ask Rosie when we get home, she's the one who found it for you. But you can be sure it's the original."_

_Killian buffed a fingerprint off the shiny metal, grin fading as a thought occurred to him. "How did you pay for this?" He licked his lips, he knew how sought after this was, even the copies went for too much._

_"I don't want you worrying about that," Liam ordered, setting his jaw in that mulish way of his. No matter what Killian protested, he wasn't going to get his way. But seeing his obvious distress, he continued, "It's not every day that your little brother is promoted as one of the youngest ship Lieutenants ever in the Royal Navy."_

_Killian forced his eyes away from the sextant, "I love it, I really do, but I can't accept this, especially with your wedding so close and –"_

_"Stop." Liam's captain voice was back, "You are taking this gift. First, because it would break Rosie's heart if you didn't. Do you know how much time she spent looking for this? And secondly," his voice dropped lower, "We are not boys living on the street like we were in our youth, I'm a captain and that means this is something I can afford. This is something you can have and no one will be worse for wear because of it."_

_Killian's eyes turned back to the sextant, his ears burning slightly._

_"Now," Liam took a breath, "I am going to hit the head and when I come back I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, aye?"_

_"Aye," Killian reluctantly agreed. Liam was right, they weren't lost boys any longer._

_And so as Liam shuffled into the aisle, Killian followed, placing the sextant on his vacant seat. He clapped his brother on the back, pulling him into a quick hug._

_"I really am proud of you," Liam grinned, "Lieutenant."_

_"You as well, Captain," Killian replied and despite his smile, his tone was more serious than he had intended. "Thank you."_

_As Liam made his way up the aisle to one of the tiny washrooms, Killian felt the eyes of the nearby passengers. He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the attention. He pressed his lips together and nodded to his audience before taking his seat. He'd barely had a second chance to hold the sextant, admiring the constellations before another bout of turbulence sent people rushing back to their seats._

_Supposing Liam would be back soon as well he lovingly placed the sextant back in its case. He ran his fingers over the crown insignia one more time before reluctantly placing it under the seat in front of him, cursing slightly as he bumped his head on the tray table nob as the plane shook again._

_A flight attendant rushed down the aisle as another came on the intercom, "The captain has illuminated seatbelt sign, please return to your seat and fasten your – "_

_Just as Killian fingers closed on the buckle and his other hand fumbled with the side that had fallen into the aisle, the plane dropped so violently that everything not buckled down went flying to crash into the ceiling._

_Killian slammed up into the AC vent in the ceiling above his seat, before landing sideways on his armrest. His ribs tender and blood dripping down in front of his eyes, he barely heard the passengers around him screaming._

_The woman to his right was shrieking and staring at him, the blood across his face was probably shocking, but…_

_Dazed, he barely registered the bell when oxygen masks dropped from compartment above his head. Feeling almost drunk, he reached for the mask with everything moving in slow motion, the screams fading from his ears. Everything was fine, routine turbulence was normal, even these masks had to get used sometime. He fumbled with the yellow mask, finally grasping it, clumsily tugging the band around his blood slicked hair._

_As he took his first breath the dreamlike quality around him faded. As enough oxygen re-entered his system he clenched the armrest, no this was not normal. They were still falling, jerking side to side, and Killian's stomach roiled as they dropped hundreds of feet at a time. A flight attendant lay motionless on the ground next to his seat but as he reached for her a jolt sent him back reeling back in the other direction. The seat next to him was also empty. Forgetting the attendant for a moment, "Liam," he shouted, his voice lost in the cries of the other passengers and the rising roar of the plane engines._

_The turbulence was too much at this point to do anything other than just hold on and blood was still pouring down his face. He clutched the armrest of his seat, trying to put pressure on the top of his head and find his seatbelt, unable to help the woman next to him for fear of passing out and the jerking that would have knocked him off his feet. In a moment none of it mattered, as the plane slowly ripped apart around him, the wind whipping through the cabin trying to tear him from his seat. The flight attendant flew out the back and if he looked back he was sure that the back the plane was already gone. And in another moment, the plane broke apart five rows ahead of him and he could hardly see anything but air and blue as then went down. With another violent lurch he was plunging forward, his head connecting with a seat in front of him and everything went black._

—-

It's through the burn of his wheezing lungs that he feels soft touches on his face. He's soaked, lying on his back in what feels like sand. The fine grains are everywhere and his dry mouth is gritty with them but slowly they fall from his cheeks as fingers brush them away.

Despite the sting of the drying salt water in his eyes, he opens them, squinting against the harsh daylight. He'd do almost anything for a drink of water.

"You're okay." He hears her again. The phrase had been repeated almost constantly upon his waking.

The voice belonged to a golden haired, albeit slightly soot stained woman kneeling in the sand beside him. Her brows are furrowed and in spite of her own minor injuries she looks more concerned with any injury he might have sustained. He still feels lightheaded but the reason why she was so dirty and scraped, comes rushing back back in a blur of adreneline.

"Liam!"

He sits up, fighting through waves of dizziness. He'd clearly washed up to shore from wherever he'd landed. But Liam had gone – bloody fucking hell – Killian glances around. They're on a beach, a jungle creeping up to the sand's edge and green mountains rising up in the distance. Maybe Liam was with the other passengers, there had to be other passengers. It couldn't be just him and her. Liam had to be fine, he had –

"Liam?" Killian jumps at her question. She's holding a hand out as one might calm a frightened horse, does he look that skittish? Her eyes flicker to his chest and he follows with his own. He's clutching her other hand to him like it's the only thing keeping him on this earth. He doesn't remember that happening. No wonder the lass is looking at him like he could be dangerous. He drops her hand and scoots back in the sand, the sudden movement starting a dull throbbing in his head.

She doesn't look any less alarmed. "Liam? Is that your name?" she asks, one hand still held out in front of her.

"No, my brother…" he forces out as he looks around wildly, "Where - ?

There. In the distance he spots an odd shape against the horizon down the beach. The remnants of the plane? Liam had to be there, after all they'd survived much worse.

Ignoring the doubting voice in the back of his head, he leaps to his feet.

"The other passengers, are they there?" He points to their left.

Eyes wide, she nods, her mouth open as if she is going to say something, but he takes off before she has the chance.

Sand sprays as he runs as fast as his unsteady legs will allow. He ignores the vehement protests of his lungs running through large hacking coughs. Liam. He has to be with the others. He's the only person that Killian has left.

The wreckage is farther than he thought, and when he stumbles and is almost sent flying, he reluctantly slows his pace. Just as his lungs are about to give up he reaches the perimeter of the crash site.

Late to the chaos, he is the only person frantically searching among the jagged chunks of metal. The other passengers have congregated closer to the jungle, for the most part seated on large pieces of driftwood. He navigates through the strangers, calling his brother's name every so often. But as he stares at every stony face in turn, none smile at him through their scruffy leave-grown beard, blue eyes crinkling at the edges. For a heart-stopping second he sees curly brown hair and he pushes his way towards him, but no, the man turns and his hair is too sandy colored and despite the thick stubble, it's not him.

With legs of lead he stumbles back towards the wreckage. He'd seen motionless shapes laying in the sand but hadn't wanted to consider the possibility. The flight had been sparsely populated, but that group of thirty people could not be all of the passengers. Some couldn't have made it.

Liam had to have made it.

He walks among the bodies, between burnt out oil fires and bits of torn luggage, trying to push down the sick sensation roiling in his stomach. He's seen worse. He can handle this.

But no pirate-massacred village on the coast of Africa could have prepared him for the site of a man in navy lying face down in the sand. It's the last body for him to check, he'd even climbed inside the fuselage and scrambled through the upside-down cabin with no luck

He stops as suddenly as if the wind was knocked out of him. He fists his hands in his hair, knees locked and unwilling to move - no no no – it couldn't be him – oh hell – but who else could it be? There's a grating rasping noise filling the air and it's only intensifying the panic tearing through him.

There's no way to tell from here if it's him. One hand drops to his mouth as he takes a labored step forward and Killian realizes it him making the noise. The deep rattling, frantic sound is bursting from him in short frantic breaths.

His rational side, though quite overwhelmed at the moment, knows that hyperventilating isn't going to solve anything, but he can't control his breathing no matter how many slow breaths he tries to take. Like a man walking to his grave he makes his way closer. The man's arms are pinned under his body so he can't tell if it's Liam's jacket or not. But – hell – he doesn't want to know.

He has to know.

Sucking in a large lungful of air in attempt to steady himself, he only succeeds in coughing. His hands still tremble violently as he leans over the body. He can't tell. Shouldn't he be able to tell what the back of his head looks like? But no, blood was caking in the man's hair and covered everything that might have told him.

He grasps his arm and tugs, the fabric beneath his fingers already feels too smooth, like a business suit, not a uniform.

Tears instantly wink into his eyes as he stares at his face. It's not him. His too tan skin, thin face and clean-shaven cheeks could never be Liam's. He would have been slightly taller than Liam is, and the red of his tie is only a shade or two off of the blood staining his once white shirt. Liam's was navy. Navy. Not red.

A twinge of guilt threads its way through his veins at his pure relief that this stranger is dead, rather than his brother. But Killian is only human, and he can't help the smile fighting its way to his lips. As he staggers back, hope rises in his chest. If he's not here, dead or among the others, then he's out there somewhere. Two-thirds of the plane was still missing as well as the other passengers.

A glance back at the man wipes any trace of the smile from his face. He should be ashamed. This man likely had a family, same as he did. As if in cosmic remuneration for his selfish thoughts, his breath catches and his near death and soon after sprint catch up to him. Coughs wrack through him, his throat and mouth too dry to stop.

He blunders back towards where the other passengers are, desperately hoping someone has water. His throat burns and feels torn and raw. He hears a shout when he gets closer, and wearily lifts his head. A pretty, dark haired pregnant woman is staring at him and the tall man beside her is rushing towards him, a clear plastic bottle held in his fist.

Water. The man shoves the bottle in his hand and takes a couple large steps back.

Killian fumbles with the cap and it drops to the sand after he twists it off. He eagerly brings the bottle to his cracked lips and tilts back his head as he takes his first gulp. He feels better almost instantly. A couple gulps and he forces himself to stop drinking. It's time he start thinking clearly about their situation.

He bends over and grabs the cap, brushing sand from it before replacing it. He turns to give it back when he realizes the man is still standing a careful five feet away from him. A glance back at the woman behind him causes something to click in his brain.

"I'm not sick, mate," he rasps, holding out the bottle like an olive branch, "I just almost drowned." He motions to his sand caked, damp uniform. "I promise."

The man nods and despite the fact that Killian is pretty sure that he's a few years younger, it's a fatherly sort of gesture. The younger man's eyes widen as he takes in Killian's jacket.

"Are you the pilot?"

Killian drags his tongue over his lips, tasting blood as he shakes his head, "No, Lieutenant in the Royal Navy."

The man's shoulders sink in disappointment.

"Killian Jones." He offers his hand, taking a couple steps closer.

"David Nolan," the American takes his hand with a firm grip and shakes, before motioning behind him, "She's my – well, that's Mary Margaret."

Killian frowns, looking past the couple at the other passengers milling about. There's no sense of order within the group, no one's even attempted to start some sort of signal fire. The only person who could possibly have taken charge of the group is a man walking around with bandages, seeing to different injuries – a doctor perhaps.

As one of the only people likely to have been in a situation remotely similar to this he supposes it's his duty to help these people, at least until the search and rescue team find them. Now that he's taken a minute, it's obvious how terrified each passenger is.

"Look," he glances over at David, "I'm going to try and get things more in order for when we are picked up, any help would be much appreciate." His eyes meet Mary Margaret's, "If that's alright, ma'am."

She looks down, smoothing at her skirt some, a smile forced on her face, "Well I'm not going anywhere, and I can't do much so he should help."

She nods when David glances at her for confirmation, sounding quite sincere even with the forced smile.

David walks over to her and bends at the waist, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'll be close by, just call me if you need me."

She nods again, placing a soft hand on his cheek before he straightens and makes his way to where Killian stands at the edge of the crowd. The two men pick their way through the people, who are for the most part sitting in a stunned silence.

Killian finds a vacated piece of driftwood and steps on it, and a few people curiously look in his direction. He clears his throat and more people look over.

He clears his throat again, clenching his fingers by his side to avoid scratching at his ear. Confidence is what he needs now. "If I could have your attention for a moment, my name is Killian Jones." Most of the other passengers turn his way. "I'm a lieutenant in the navy and we have a protocol if a ship is sunk or wrecked and its crew is stranded in an unknown location, even a place as unpopulated as this." Killian pauses, glancing around to see if anyone is listening, but thirty pairs of eyes are already on him and he straightens his posture. "Since we find ourselves in a similar situation, though it shouldn't be long before a rescue crew arrives, we should follow that protocol."

"What would you have us do?" A dark haired woman calls from the front, a young boy standing beside her. "We are not soldiers like you." A sneer spreads across her face.

He looks around, and sees that a few people are nodding at what the woman said and muttering to each other. If this is to go smoothly doubts like this have to be kept to a minimum.

He holds out a hand, and to his surprise silence falls again. "I'm not talking about fighting or anything that is too much for any of us to handle. I'm referring to tasks such as gathering all of the water that we can find and organizing what food supplies we have. We should compile a list of names for all those here, list those that we know are missing –" He manages to keep from biting his lip, "and those that we can identify that… have passed away. It's not likely we will be on rescue boats by nightfall, so we should also erect shelters from the supplies we have."

They stare silently back at him, a few nodding.

"We've lived through this abominable accident, but we're alive, we're still here. I don't think we should stop surviving as best we can now that we're here. If we work together, our stay will be much more bearable, until we can finally leave this place behind."

Killian hesitates, but David gives him an encouraging nod to continue, "Since it's less straight forward than the others, I will volunteer to construct some shelters, but I will need assistance. If there's any who have experience camping – "

"I'll help," a younger woman with long dark hair in a red hoodie stands next to an elderly woman, waving a hand, "I backpacked in Europe after high school."

Killian nods, "That's great, if you want to start gathering materials," he turns to the others, "And more help would be wonderful just go find –" He trails off, looking at the woman expectantly.

"Ruby," she calls over her shoulder as she heads towards the fuselage.

"Follow Ruby."

Slowly but surely Killian doles out the remaining tasks. David volunteers to gather all the water in one place. A ginger man named Archie holding a dog leash and a brunette named Belle offer to take down names, the woman already pulling a notebook and pen from her tattered purse. The older woman, or Granny, as she introduced herself put herself in charge of food, saying she owned a diner at home. He didn't bother to point out that all they had access to was airline meals and peanut packets. Killian sends the man says he's a sheriff, Graham, to assist, worried that the grandmother might overexert herself. The rest of the passengers split between the groups, eager to help. Only a few more severely injured passengers, an older gentleman with shoulder length hair (who looked vaguely familiar) and the mother/son pair didn't join in the effort. His blonde rescuer hadn't returned either.

Killian sighs before stepping down off the driftwood, the combined shock of the crash and almost drowning and everything else sending him swaying on his feet. A hand catches his arm before he has a chance to tilt too far off his axis and he looks up to see a blonde man holding gauze and a mini first aid kit.

Killian waves him away with a cough. "I'm fine, no really, look after the others."

The man didn't let go, "You're the only person I haven't had a chance to."

With the air of a medical professional that had been around the block a few times, Dr. Victor Whale sat him down on the driftwood he had just occupied and began prodding him despite his weak protests.

"You need to be drinking water," Victor orders, a finger lifting up Killian's left eyelid, "You burst a blood vessel in your eye, probably from coughing - I saw that fit you had. And the seawater will have dehydrated you worse than any of the rest of us. But you know that, I assume, being in the navy."

The doctor leaves for a moment and comes back with a bottle of water. "You need to drink this before you move, but not too fast, you can't afford to lose any more fluids."

Killian winces as the doctor's probing fingers find a tender lump on the top of his head and his fingers come away slightly bloodied. He proceeds to bully Killian into sitting still till he has line of gauze wrapped around his head. It takes so long that he finishes the bottle of water and the sun is low on the horizon before Victor snips the last bit of gauze and declares him free to go.

At least he is cleared of a concussion.

Killian jumps up, much steadier on his feet and promises the doctor that he'll drink more. He quickly sets off to find the group he was supposed to have charge of.

His worry is unwarranted as Ruby has everything under control, she'd found tarps in someone's gear and was using hair bands and bits of vine to secure them to the large sticks they'd found just inside the jungle. They'd even pulled bits of the wreckage into ways that created even better structures. Impressed, Killian tells her this is just as good as or better than anything he would have come up with. She beams at the compliment and winks at him, twirling her hair in her fingers. He stutters something about checking on the other groups and almost runs away from the grinning girl. She seems a little young for him to be looking at.

As he heads toward Mary Margaret who's laying sticks out in preparation for a fire (a former girl scout she had informed them, is just as capable of making a fire as a man and she wanted to do something to help) he eyes the side of the plane. Part of the airline name still remains, now reading STORYB OOK. The missing R appears to have been ripped off with the wing and the rest was presumably with the other two thirds of the plane. And Liam. With a grimace at the sheer irony, he looks away. This certainly isn't any storybook plot he'd hoped to live out. Hopefully the ending was not as grim as the beginning.

He stacks a few large logs for Mary Margaret and they set the fire, and a few others start around them. Perfect timing as well, the light is fading, streaking the sky with red and pink. David comes back a few moments later, passing out the rations of water and sits down beside them. He tenderly wipes a charcoal streak from Mary Margaret's cheek and Killian decides it's time to give them a few moments to themselves.

He grabs his uniform jacket which he'd shucked as he worked in the sun and drapes it over his arm. He walks from fire to fire, glad to see that everyone seems a bit calmer as they huddle together, talking as if they haven't just met today. He pushes down the aching in the pit of stomach, knowing that if Liam was here, they'd be talking around the fire now, planning the next course of action together. Part of his hope for the signal fire is to draw the attention of the rescue team, but also for the missing passengers, including his brother.

Killian begs off the calls to come sit at the fires, wanting to walk around a bit longer and let the ache subside a bit before he rejoined humanity.

The light of another smaller fire, one he didn't help build catches his eyes, a bit off from the others. He picks his way through the sand, trying to make enough noise that his appearance won't startle her, but she appears lost in thought.

His savior is poking at the fire with a stick, sending up embers as the wood crackles. The firelight dances on her face and despite the hardness lingering in her expression, she is beautiful. She shivers slightly as a cooler breeze winds over the beach, shifting closer to the fire. It's then he realizes he's watched her long past when is appropriate and needs to say something, lest she catches him staring.

He steps up to right beside the fire, "Hey," he stammers, unsure of what to say, rather ashamed of his earlier treatment of her.

She glances up. Her hair is pulling out of her bun, hanging down in wisps around her face and her brow furrows for a moment.

He bites his lip as she studies him.

"I brought sustenance," he tries again, holding up the airplane packets and waters. "A peace offering, perhaps?"

A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth and she nods, "Alright."

He returns the smile and settles next to her in the sand, hoping that this is a sign that things will work out alright.


	3. Emma II

_Sustenance._ Who the hell says sustenance? Someone needs to inform this Brit that colonies had declared their independence quite a while ago and that everyone had progressed a few centuries. Besides, if it was still the 1700s he'd be wearing a more dashing uniform and a hat that looks like a taco.

Despite the lack of coattails and form fitting white pants, he still manages to look unfairly handsome for a man who'd washed up on shore a couple hours ago. He'd been too sandy and waterlogged for her to notice then, but standing in the light of the fire he's distracting. His disheveled hair partially wrapped with bandages, five o'clock shadow and rumpled uniform give him a distinct devil may care look, those earnest blue eyes the only thing giving the game away.

And he really needs to stop doing that with his tongue. It catches her eye every time it flicks out to wet his lips.

As he starts rocking on his heels she decides she's tortured the guy long enough. "Alright," she nods, schooling her expression into careful disinterest as he eagerly settles in the sand next to her. He may look like God's gift to woman-kind but he's military and she can't forget she's a fugitive.

She's seen no sign of August Booth since they've crashed and as long at the air marshal stays missing, she's a free woman. She feels equal parts hope and guilt for wishing he never turns up. Better for her future that the man had died in the crash but better for her conscience that he comes strolling onto the beach after the rescue ships arrive – once she was aboard one and hidden of course. Booth isn't a nice guy but he believes in his job and Emma can begrudgingly accept that, even if his job is to put her away in prison.

"Chicken or beef?"

Emma blinks rapidly, "What?"

The Brit holds up two plastic containers looking slightly bemused. "I've got some sort of poultry airplane meal or a beef one," he quirks a smile, "Though I'm sure they both will be equally unsatisfying given their source."

"Chicken, I guess," she shrugs, she's had worse than an airplane meal.

He hands her one of the plastic containers in his left hand and as her fingers close around the bottom she's surprised to discover it's still warm.

As she peels back the corner of the plastic film and the smell of chicken and rice meets her, her stomach groans. She hasn't eaten more than a small package of peanuts. Impatient, she rips open the rest of the film and reaches in to grab the first piece of slightly rubbery chicken, shoveling it into her mouth.

She's already digging out the second piece when another plastic wrapped bundle inches its way into her vision.

She glances up and he arches an eyebrow, "There's some cutlery in here, if you'd prefer."

Emma resists rolling her eyes as she takes the bundle and unwraps the plastic spork and knife, digging back into to her bland yet extremely appreciated dinner. Though he shows a higher standard of table manners, he's still wolfing down sporkfuls of food as fast as he can. With both of their attention on their food, their small meal passes in silence.

She's still scraping the last grains of rice from the container when he turns to her, scratching at his neck. "Earlier I was too busy running around completely mental to say thank you for saving my life," he dropped his eyes to the sand, "But I wouldn't be here without you."

She narrows her eyes, staring at his cheeks. If it wasn't for the fire casting a red glow onto them, she'd say he's blushing. Huh, he's not what she'd expect, most guys that look the way he does are cocky and arrogant beyond all hell, but he's still nervously running his fingers in his hair.

Emma shrugs, "You're just lucky it worked, because I have no idea how to give proper CPR."

"Well, for whatever you did," he says, blue eyes fixing on her, "I am exceedingly grateful."

"Anyone would have done the same," she replies. She succeeds in sounding politely distant but shifts under his gaze, carefully placing her plastic silverware in the container to avoid saying anything else.

His head tilts back slightly, worrying at his bottom lip again and he keeps staring as if he's trying to figure her out. "I don't even know your name."

Well, that's his own fault, his rapid departure after waking on the beach had nixed any sort of introductions.

For a moment she considers giving him a false name but it won't hurt to tell the truth, with Booth MIA there wasn't a chance anyone knew of her.

"I'm Emma." She leaves out her last name. No harm in being cautious.

"Killian Jones," he offers, before hesitantly holding out a hand.

When she doesn't take it right away, the corners of his mouth start to tug downwards and she knows it's from how she's been freezing him out. It's what she knew how to do, even so, her insides twist as he lets out a small sigh and starts to drop his hand.

Groaning in her head, torn between the broken teenage girl screaming not to let anyone in and her repressed desire to connect with another person, she darts her hand into his, at least giving into common human decency. His palm is calloused but warm and his grip is firm

And when she looks at him there's nothing but gratitude written across his face, no ulterior motive, just a nice guy stuck in this shitty situation with her trying to be friendly after she's saved his life. The thought glows in her chest for a second, maybe she should find handsome strangers to resuscitate more often. It feels good.

Eyeing his uniform jacket in the sand between them, she can admit she's curious about him. The knowledge that after the next day or two she'll never see him again gives her enough security to relax a little and talk.

Pointing to his jacket she asks, "Shouldn't you introduce yourself with a sergeant or something in front of your name? I thought you army types were sticklers for rank." The few military guys Emma had ever met had fallen over themselves to tell her their rank and how dangerous their job was. And truly, she appreciates their service – but much less so if they try and use it to guilt her into sleeping with them.

"I'm in the navy, lass, not the army – and I'm a lieutenant," he flashes her a grin, "Higher ranked than a sergeant."

She raises an eyebrows and a wry smile spreads across her face, "Don't they make sure you can swim in the navy?"

This time she's sure he blushes.

"Aye," he replies, grumbling a bit, "Unfortunately, the training they provide does  _not_  include swimming while unconscious."

Much to her surprise, Emma laughs, the scrunch of his eyebrows and the way his mouth dropped open sets her off further.

"Oi, I almost died!" He complains, his forced indignant frown cracking even as her laughter starts to die down.

"Oh, please," she says a little breathlessly, "That was hours ago. I woke up in the jungle thinking I was going to be eaten by a tiger or something. You're not the only one who had some issues."

Killian's eyes make an obvious perusal of her skin, brows raising slightly, "And yet here you sit, unmarked and definitely not a tiger morsel..."

"Ok, lieutenant, tell me what you would have thought if you're lying on your back in a jungle and the bushes next you start rustling."

His eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline, "What was it?"

"A Dalmatian – but that's beside the point," she adds as a grin spreads across his face.

"Apologies," he snarks back, "I was unaware that a harmless encounter with a household pet outweighs drowning on the scale of trials and tribulations."

She rolls her eyes halfheartedly.

"And I'll have you know, if a tiger was after you, you wouldn't hear it till it was too late."

"Great," Emma groans, "And now I won't be able to step foot in the trees without fear of death by tiger. Thanks."

His shoulders wiggle slightly as he leans in with a cheeky grin, "Anytime, love."

Surprisingly the pet name doesn't irritate her so she let's it slide, he's probably not trying to charm his way into her pants at this point anyway. Somehow she suspects that it's generally not number one on most people's list of priorities when crash-landed on a deserted island.

Silence falls between them and she rubs her arms as a cool gust of wind furls around them. Before the wind has a chance to die down, the lieutenant is brushing sand off his coat and offering it to her. She opens her mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. He's obviously comfortable in what he's wearing and she's not cold per say, but she isn't warm either.

Just as quickly he's leaning away and hunching over the sand, tracing shapes in an area he's smoothed out. Spreading the coat across her legs, Emma stifles a yawn. The weight is a comfort on her lap and no goose bumps rise on her arms as the breeze flies around them again.

"Thanks," she says through another yawn, "I'm going to see if I can sleep."

"That's probably advisable," he agrees, watching as she lies back and pulls the jacket over herself.

Her eyes droop as she tries to get comfortable, until the jacket sleeve drags across her wrist. She yelps and curses, snapping back to a sitting position, clutching just under the broken skin.

Killian is hovering over her in less than a second, his hands grasping her arm at the elbow and palm, pulling it closer. He frowns, looking down at her, "You're hurt. You didn't say anything."

"It's nothing." She tries to tug her arm away, but though his grip is gentle he doesn't let her budge.

"No, it's not," he insists, "Let me help."

She sighs, but relaxes her arm, judging by the set of his jaw he's not going to take no for an answer.

Taking this as a sign of consent, he jumps to his feet. "Wait here."

_Like she was going anywhere..._

A minute or two later he's back and kneeling in the sand beside her. Without any warning he pours a clear liquid over her wrist, gripping at her forearm to keep her still - cause  _goddamn_ that stings.

"Ow, fuck," she grits her teeth, "What the hell is that?"

"Rum," he shrugs, smirking slightly at her incredulous expression, "It's from the beverage trolley - Dr. Whale finished the travel tube of antiseptic we found earlier treating the other passengers. I'm sure we'll find more - but for now rum works just as nicely."

"I would have been happy with water," Emma mutters under her breath.

He chuckles as he begins to wrap her wrist, "Ah, but we wouldn't want to get it infected, now would we?"

"Oh sure," Emma scoffs, "You're being a  _gentleman_ …"

Killian tucks the end of the gauze beneath the rest. "The esteemed doctor dumped vodka on my head wound earlier so I'm not just trying to torture you, lass." He takes a drag out of the little bottle and leans in close, his breath landing in warm puffs across her cheeks. "And I'm always a gentleman." He winks before offering the remainder of the rum.

She snatches it from his hand with a small  _hrpmh_ grateful for the burn of the alcohol down her throat, even if it's barely a mouthful.

She swipes her tongue around her mouth chasing the last tastes of rum, "I shouldn't be complaining though - we both got very lucky. I'll take first aid by rum over death by plane crash any day. So, thanks, I guess."

He nods, suddenly very interested in arranging the first aid supplies into a neat pile. She frowns, confused, but his thoughts are obviously elsewhere, and she leaves him to them, trying to watch discreetly from under her lashes. A dark splotch of blood colors the corner of his eye - probably from the almost drowning - that she hadn't noticed before and she realizes how battered he looks. He's got a cut on his right cheek held shut by a butterfly band-aid and he's covered in superficial scratches and scrapes, just more things the sand was concealing before. She knows she doesn't look much better.

Killian turns to her after a few minutes, "I'm thinking of trying to find the cockpit tomorrow. I saw smoke on the horizon today and if we have the black box we can try and speed up the search process." Almost as an afterthought he adds, "And perhaps other passengers survived as well."

"I'll come," she offers, anything is better than sitting on the beach just waiting for rescue or for Booth to show up. "I think I can overcome my fear of tigers by then."

Her teasing tone goes unnoticed and he only nods slightly as he presses his lips together in a firm line.

Perplexed at his suddenly somber mood Emma ran back over everything they said.  _Death by plane crash... Perhaps other passengers survived as well… Oh god_.

"Killian?" Emma asks, a pit forming in her stomach. "Did you find your brother?"

He shakes his head, tense as he sifts fistfuls of sand from one hand to the other, "No."

The pit drops and a wave of guilt crashes over her, she wasn't thinking - she didn't even  _remember_. "If you didn't find him, that means he could still -"

"You know, I think we should get some sleep now," he interrupts her. He's breathing hard through his nose and his eyes are wide and pleading for her to drop it.

He gulps and his shoulders sag as she nods. He takes her silence as a chance to settle down into the sand - still a few feet away, and lay with his back to her.

Shame thick in her throat, Emma curls up on her side agonizing over how glib she was. People died. No one she knew or cared for but she needs to remember she's the exception.

"I'm sorry," she calls softly towards him.

He sighs, audible from where she is, "It's not your fault, Emma."

"Swan," she whispers, before she can bite back the words.

Killian turns to face her, tucking an arm under his head, "Hmm?"

"My name -" She hesitates, "It's Emma Swan."

"Swan," he muses, chewing on the inside of his lip - his eyes still hollow, "That suits you."

For a few moments neither of them move and they lay watching one another. He looks away when she tenses, his gaze starting shivers in her spine and she pretends not to notice that the corners of his eyes are wet. She's glad they can at least give each other that.

The fire finally dies completely, cloaking his face in darkness. She rolls on her back, turning her eyes upwards. To someone who spends most of her time in cities, this sky is absolutely stunning. The distant light of other fires does nothing to dampen the brightness of the stars and her self-loathing can't help but melt away at the sight. They stretch across the darkness, finally disappearing into the black sea. With no moon the Milky Way is luminous and breathtaking and Emma feels so very light. She feels free.

This crash may be the best thing that ever happened to her - a chance to wipe the slate clean. With a small smile she lets her tired eyes drift shut.

"Goodnight, Emma Swan." His lilting voice is already heavy with sleep and it widens her smile, just a little bit.

"Goodnight, Killian Jones," she murmurs back, the first tendrils of sleep pulling her under.

Maybe this will all work out, maybe she will get away this time - for good.

_—-_

"Swan, wake up! Swan!"

Emma is pulled abruptly from a very deep sleep by Killian crouching over her and roughly shaking her arm, his voice is hoarse and urgent.

"Wha-"

"Shh," his hand quickly covers her mouth and he waits for her to nod before removing it.

Still caught in the last recesses of sleep her mind has yet to catch up with what is going on. She has time for one bleary blink before a long, high-pitched scream rises in the air. Emma starts at the sound.

Killian stands quickly and now that she's fully alert, she notices he's poised like a hunting dog sniffing the wind, alarm spreading across his face. She jumps up beside him, squinting in the same direction towards the jungle. It's not yet dawn, but she thinks she can see the grey along the top of the top of the tree-line signaling its imminent arrival.

Another scream tears into the darkness and Emma shudders, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. It's grating and unnatural and Emma doesn't want to go anywhere near it.

"What is that?" Emma whispers, "Is that a person?"

A muscle jumps in his jaw, "I don't know."

"What animal makes a noise like that?"

He listens for a moment and when the scream doesn't come again, he replies, "If it's not a person, mountain lions... panthers can make a sound like that, or perhaps a bird but I don't know. I've no clue where we are."

In the silence that follows Emma hears a murmur of voices to their left, towards the other passengers. The scream comes again and the tangle of voices rises.

"Come on," Killian urges and takes off towards the large group.

The reach the rabble and the people all call out to Killian, asking him what to do, asking him what's going on. He holds out a hand to quiet them and the group closes around them.

She'd seen from a distance when he took control before, but close up it is fascinating to see the change from the slightly goofy, bashful flirt to officer in command. He even holds himself differently, jaw set and back straight, exuding an air that he if he gives an order, he expects it to be followed.  And with all eyes fixing on him, she's happy to hide in his shadow.

The group goes silent as a particularly loud scream splits the air - is it closer now? It doesn't stop, and it's  _definitely_  closer, the wailing sending Emma's heart into overdrive and she takes a careful step towards Killian before she shakes herself out of it.

Fear is painted clear on the faces of the other passengers. She hears a stifled whimper and her eyes dart to the young boy - Henry - that she'd met earlier. His face is buried in his mother's side and her arms are wrapped firmly around him.

The screaming cuts off suddenly and the resulting silence is deafening. Somehow she doesn't think they'll hear it again - whatever happened, whatever that was, is surely done.

They all stand waiting, holding their breath, but for the moment, all is quiet. No ones moves.

A loud crack sounds from the trees and everyone jumps as trees just inside the jungle start to move as if stirred up by hurricane winds. Palm fronds sway violently and Emma is at a complete loss for what is happening.

She blinks and rubs her eyes, something - or is it just her imagination, hovers above the trees. It's black, blocking out the light of the stars behind it and seems to absorb any light their fires may cast. She's not even sure that it's solid.

"What is that?" Mary Margaret squeaks, her voice octaves higher than it should be. So intent of the form before them, Emma hadn't realized she was beside her.

_Not her imagination then._

Is it a bat? A bird? If so it had to be enormous, larger than any bird Emma had ever seen. It clearly flies, but she sees no wings, can hardly see anything at all unless she squints.  _What the hell?_

The shadow like thing hovers over the edge of the trees, a strong wind buffeting the trees beneath it.

"It's watching us," David growls, his hands tightening on Mary Margaret's shoulders.

Does it even have eye to watch with?  So inky is the black that Emma can’t see any features to distinguish. 

The first true touches of dawn start to light the sky and the shapes dips down farther around the trees - its shape indistinguishable. And then it's alighting through the jungle and all they can see is trees waving wildly in the distance. When it doesn't return, Emma's heart starts to thud back to its normal pace.

The clamor of voices start all at once. Worried and frantic the voices are almost indistinguishable. Killian tries to raise his voice over the mob but no one is paying attention.

The voices beating their way into Emma's head are too much after the screaming - everyone needs to stop talking. Now. She shoves two fingers in her mouth and whistles. The piercing sound reaches through the thick skulls of the other passengers and now they're all looking at her.  _Great._

Killian finally swivels around and looks at her as well, and she raises her eyebrows at him. _She's_ certainly not going to say anything.

He clears his throat, "Ehm, whatever that was is gone, so I think we should attempt a few more hours of sleep so we are refreshed and ready for search and rescue to arrive. To make sure, of course, I'd like a few volunteers to keep watch."

A short man with a greying beard shoves through the crowd of people, marching right up to Killian. "You want up to just go to sleep after  _that_ ," he points to the forest, as if they didn't know what he was talking about, "happened? Are you crazy?"

Killian steels his shoulders. "It didn't come over the beach. And we don't even know what  _that_  was. Birds can make noises like that. We will be safe here, especially if we group together."

"Forget that," the man growls, "You can go to sleep but I'm not shutting my eyes again till we get off this god-forsaken beach." And with another growl, he stalks off closer to the water, muttering.

A few people nod, including Henry's mother and follow him, tugging Henry behind her.

Regina pauses in front of Killian before she goes, "What makes you think you know best?" She looks him up and down, clearly not liking what she sees. "How old are you anyway? Twenty-three? At the most?"

 _Huh_. Emma would have guessed a year or two older than her twenty-four - but perhaps it's just the amount of authority he's exuding at the moment.

"I'm twenty-five," Killian replies coolly, more controlled than Emma could ever have managed with her. Goddamn that woman was spiteful. "And unless anyone else has had extensive wilderness survival and military training, I'm the most equipped to  _know best_."

Regina sneered, "Well sorry if I don't put my life and the life of my son in your hands."

A vein stands out in Killian's temple, but he doesn't respond, letting her stalk away towards the others.

He takes a deep breath as if he had never been interrupted, "Now as I was saying, I believe we are safe, but it can't hurt to stay close. You'll be fine around here."

Slowly, with constant reassurance from Killian the group breaks up, returning to their fires.

Emma feels a soft hand on her back, and Mary Margaret sends her a small smile, "You and Killian are welcome at our fire - if you don't want to return to yours."

"Thank you," she glances at Killian and he nods, "That would be great."

The four of them settle around their low fire, closer perhaps, they would have originally. She takes comfort in the kind woman beside her and lieutenant sitting on her other side. Mary Margaret settles on her back, head in David's lap. She closes her eyes as he strokes her short hair. Killian sits rubbing at his eyes, trying to keep them fixed on the trees.

As the fear leeches from Emma's system, exhaustion takes its place. All she wants to do is lie down and close her eyes, but part of her feels that she should try and stay up as well. But he notices her next jaw-splitting yawn and with a few quiet words convinces her to sleep. He assures her he'll wake her up so he can have a turn.

Her lie detector pings and she calls him out on it. "Look, I get it, you're trying to be chivalrous or sweet or whatever," she argues, "But I don't need you to coddle me, you're the group appointed leader. You need sleep too." She fixed him with a stare that hopefully said,  _deal with it_. "I expect to be woken in an hour or so."

And it's enough, this time he doesn't lie when he agrees, so she settles down. She doesn't have his coat anymore, but the rising sun is starting to heat the breeze again so she's comfortable enough.

She sighs, wishing for the peace she felt under the stars before that thing had come and washed the peace away but she feels safe next to Killian. She's too tired to overthink it or over examine it. She just lets herself be glad for it for the moment. The sand makes a soft bed and the lulling sound of crashing waves send her tumbling headlong into sleep as soon as her eyes close.

Her dreams are filled with screams.


	4. Killian II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting for this next chapter, life gets crazy sometimes!

Killian sighs heavily on his makeshift bed.  For some time now he’s been convince himself that he hasn’t woken up.  Perhaps if he lays still enough and pretends that the sun isn’t already red and bright beyond his eyelids, he will fall back asleep.  He’s certainly comfortable enough, the sand is soft and warm beneath him and for the first time since the crash his aching muscles have relaxed.  

But alas, the sun is above the horizon and Killian’s habit of rising with the dawn isn’t deterred by his current predicament.  Though an asset to a life in the military, occasionally the habit comes back to bite him in the arse (his past regrets have involved too many pints at the pub,  _not_  a plane crash).  

He’s not sure the extra half hour of sleep (he definitely did not make it to a full hour) did him any good but he’d dutifully shaken Emma awake after the agreed time.  Despite the sleepy blink of her eyes, he thinks she’d been pleasantly surprised that he’d kept his word.  

He’s learned something new about Emma Swan, she does not trust easily.

Sitting up, he stifles a groan, rubbing at his eyes.  He drags his tongue over his dry and cracking lips tasting the metallic hint of blood. The foul taste in his mouth is an unpleasant reminder of his lack of a toothbrush and he grumbles as he looks around his water bottle.  Spotting it, he takes a few greedy gulps, squinting against the sunlight.

Mary Margaret and David are still curled up together on the other side of their dead fire, and most of the other passengers are still sleeping.  Emma however, is awake.  Rather than keeping watch though, she’s digging through a suitcase a few meters away.

“Found your luggage?” Killian calls to her, his joints popping as he stands, and almost jumps himself when she starts violently.

She throws an exasperated look at him.  “You scared me,” she accuses and sighs, dropping the blouse she’s holding.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, though he’s unable to keep the grin off his face - nor can he keep himself from teasing her about her jumpiness, “I promise to makes lots of unnecessary noise when I approach you in the future.”

Her eyelashes flutter as she rolls her eyes and refuses to take his bait.

Killian shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders forward, pushing his luck, “And I definitely promise to never hide in any bushes and jump out at you.”

She snorts at that and although she stays focused on her task he’s pleased to see that she’s smiling.

Guilt nags at him in a back corner of his mind for the smiling and the little bit of flirting, but he can’t help but want to talk to Emma. That rare little smile of hers and the opportunity to see more like it is the only thing distracting him from the desire to pace and worry in a daze, as he imagines every possible and terrible fate for his brother.  With most of the other passengers asleep he can’t leave on their hike yet, they need to know he isn’t abandoning them to tramp wildly through the jungle.  

Killian finds that he isn’t off put by her silence. In fact, he likes the challenge.  At the moment he’s perfectly content just standing on the beach with the warm breeze coming off the water, and watching how it plays with her long golden hair.  She’d freed it from its knot at some point and he’s quite pleased by this development.  Mesmerized, he watches her fingers tangle through the strands in an attempt to keep them under control (failing in a miserably adorable way mind you).

He comes to his senses as a particularly enthusiastic gust blows hair into her mouth, and she mutters under her breath, picking it out. Killian knows he’s staring and the last thing he wants to do is make her uncomfortable, so he looks away and down to her suitcase which is almost as distracting as Emma, but not in a good way.

The bag is quite honestly the most hideous piece of luggage he’s ever seen. It looks more suited for an elderly woman stuck in some decade long passed than Emma. Strewn across vomit colored leaves are the ugliest flowers he’s ever seen on a fabric (there can’t possibly be flowers that hideous found in nature).  As if that weren’t nightmarish enough, someone thought to color the flowers in a horrifying shade of pink. Desiring to look away, and quickly, his eyes shift from the regrettable pattern to the name monogrammed on the side of the suitcase.  

“You the same size as, ehm,” he squints at the name, “Edith Worthington?”

Emma’s whole body tenses and she slowly raises her head, fixing him with a defiant stare, “It’s not what you think.”

“You haven’t found your suitcase and you need something more suitable to wear for our foray into the jungle?” He’d gone down the same line of thought, her long sleeve satin blouse, wool trousers and those heeled boots are not most definitely not proper hiking attire.

She shifts her weight back onto her heels, her mouth twitching, and  _not_ threatening to turn into a smile he thinks.  But she doesn’t say anything and the silence starts to become uncomfortable. Killian, being his daft self decides that the best course of action is to keep talking.  

“Well I’m sure Edith won’t be troubled too much by a shirt and some jeans - especially if it means rescue sooner.” He bites his lip, a thought occurring to him, “Best be quick though, we wouldn’t want people think times have gotten so desperate we need to start looting.”

Her eyes narrow, “Looting? That’s what you think I’m doing?”

With a touch of unease, it dawns on Killian he’s very close to saying something very wrong (or likely he already has). The death grip she’s got on the pair of socks she’s holding isn’t doing much to prove his theory wrong.

“Ehm, I suppose  _technically_  you are looting, which I don’t particularly condone...” She opens her mouth angrily but he keeps talking, as if his mouth were desperately trying to fumble out of this wreck of a conversation it had gotten him into and failing spectacularly. “But anyone would admit we are in an extenuating circumstance and she’s not around to ask for a loaner…”

He trails off, blanching under her glare, her arms folded across her chest.  She’s closed herself off, her arms clutching at her ribcage as if to hold herself together.  He recognizes that look, like she’s backed into a corner and she’s bracing for the worst.  Something he said - it had to have been about looting - hit a little too close to home.  And for once in his life, Killian doesn’t know what to say.

“Actually, the suitcase  _is_  mine,” she finally spits out, “It’s one of the few things I have from Grandma Edith… But, good to know that’s what you think of me.” She looks away in open contempt, violently zipping up the suitcase, clawing at a shirt when it gets stuck in the zipper.

Blood rushes to Killian’s cheeks and he can feel the warm flush all the way down to his toes.  “I didn’t mean -” he sputters, wondering why he can’t seem to get it together around this woman, “I’m sorry for whatever I said to offend you.  I certainly don’t think -”

“Save it,  _lieutenant_.  I really don’t care what you think of me anyway.”  Emma grunts as she stands, heaving the suitcase upright.  

She takes a few steps, dragging her grandmother’s suitcase through the sand behind her, calling back over her shoulder, “Come find me when you’re ready to leave, I’m still going to find this cockpit.”  

He does nothing but watch as she labors towards the fire he’d found her at yesterday evening, wondering how this went so badly.

The moment clearly illustrates the loss of his brother.  If he had been present for that outstanding example of Killian’s idiocy he would’ve teased him endlessly, pointing out all the obvious ways he could sailed through calmer waters.  Or if the problem was more serious Liam would have offered a listening ear and sound advice.  But Killian doesn’t let himself wish for things that may never be.  He learned a long time ago it never does any good.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Jones?”

Silently cursing whoever it is with their poor timing, Killian gives himself a moment to make sure his voice will be steady and he turns around, forcing a pleasant smile and focusing his attention on her rather than the angry blonde who had just left him. “You can call me Killian.”

The Australian woman who’d volunteered to take down passenger names, stands shyly before him, holding a notebook in her hands.

He fumbles around for a moment, wracking his brain for her name, “Belle? Right?”

She nods and he notices that she looks remarkably put together for a woman fresh off a crash landing on a deserted beach.  Perhaps she was lucky enough to find her luggage.

“I’ve talked to everyone,” she informs him, adopting a matter-a-fact tone, “And I just wanted to let you know what our numbers look like.”

Killian nods for her to continue.

“There are 28 of us on the beach still living.  We counted 63 people who didn’t make it. We’ve identified 17 of them and have seat numbers of others.  By name we’re missing 31.  I’m not sure how many unnamed though - I do know a 747 hold about 400 people, but it wasn’t full.”

 _Seven hells_ , 400 people, and most likely dead.

He sighs rubbing at his forehead, “So many…”

“In a crash like this…” she trails off, “I’ve never heard of a plane breaking apart like that in the air.  I think it’s a miracle so many of us survived with only minor injuries.”

They stand in silence for a minute, both lost in thought.  Killian’s eyes wander as he attempts to calculate the odds of his brother being alive but stops before he has the percentage.  He’s not sure he’s ready to know yet.  

The other passengers are starting to stir and Killian almost sags with relief.  Their wakefulness means he can soon get moving, something bringing him closer to the chance of finding Liam.  He catches the gaze of an older man with shoulder length, mud brown hair, a glint in his eyes, and a sneer on his lips, and Killian narrows his eyes when he recognizes him as one of the few uninjured people who didn’t help with last night’s preparations. People like him rankle Killian, the ones who aren’t willing to pull their own weight.  It’s a different tale if you you’re unable, but he’d seen the man practically run across the beach to snatch his luggage away from the volunteers hauling bags from the fuselage, before dragging it away.

Belle’s hand on his arm brings his attention back to her, “I’ll leave you alone, you clearly have lots on your mind, but,” She hesitates, “I just wanted to thank you for all that you did yesterday.  I think it helped for us to have a goal.”

Killian’s ears burn, “I just told everyone what I’d been trained to do.”

She smiles indulgently at him, “I also wanted to let you know that I’ve created rain catching reservoirs with sticks and some tarp - I don't think the bottled water is going to last much longer. I also distributed the sunscreen I could find, the last thing we need are sunburns turning into severe sunburns and leaving blisters and open skin for infection.”

Killian gapes at her, a strong appreciation for this petite, rather quiet woman and her initiative rising in his gut.  “I’m the one who should be thanking you Belle. We could use more people like you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she waves her hand nonchalantly, “I’ve read so many survival books and biographies, I’m not going to waste that knowledge.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and Killian glances past her to find the same man still watching them, a shadow of disgust in his expression.  

Noticing his distraction, Belle rocks on the balls of her feel, “Well, I’ll let you go. I’ve got a few more projects to work on.”

“Right,” Killian answers distractedly, since preoccupied with the man, but as she turns to leave he stops her.

“What’s wrong?” Clearly confused by his behavior she attempts to follow his eye line.

“Do you know that man?” he asks her, the man still blatantly staring.

She shakes her head, but then puts on a smile and waves.

“What are you doing?” He whispers urgently, exasperated at her neighborly concern.

“Perhaps he’s just bored,” she shrugs, but falters when his expression doesn’t change.

Belle quickly bids him goodbye, obviously uncomfortable under the man’s scrutiny. Killian’s is about ready to go over and ask what the hell his game is, when the man looks away.

He lets go of a breath he isn’t aware he’d been holding.  Something is off about that man and Killian doesn’t want anything to do with him.

Shaking off his unease, he turns to find David stirring beside Mary Margaret.  Quickly, he vacates the area.  The young man had sounded quite keen on coming yesterday when Killian had mentioned hiking out to find the cockpit. David had also failed to notice the terrified expression on Mary Margaret’s face when he’d done so. They’re only three or four years younger than Killian, in the last year of university, so they’re not incapable by any means, but with a baby on the way neither of them should be taking unnecessary risks.  Killian knows what it’s like to lack a parent, one by choice and the other unwillingly taken, and doesn’t want to have a hand in causing that fate for the unborn babe; that creature is still out there.

Sweat is already beading on his brow, and he dreads to think how much more unpleasant the jungle is going to feel.  At least on the beach the ocean brings a healthy breeze but in the trees, they’ll be trapped in the unrelenting humidity.

Not quite daring to get his hopes up, he makes his way to the pile of unclaimed suitcases the doctor had searched through for supplies, eyes open for his bag.  Regretting his choice of a plain black roller bag, he starts to dig through multiple piles searching for the one with his compass tag.

Wiping his brow, he unbuttons a few more buttons on his shirt, pulling the fabric away from his skin attempting to get some airflow.  Just as he’s resigning himself to a hike through the woods in his winter-weight uniform trousers, he gives a wry sigh of relief when spots the familiar band of the light blue sailboat-patterned elastic that Liam always secured his aging suitcase with.  Despite looking a bit childish for a captain in the navy, Liam insists he loves the damn thing (and it’s probably true given it had been a gift from Rosie and Killian has never seen a man so smitten with a woman).

Hoisting the absurdly large suitcase from the pile, he’s panting and dripping with sweat by the time he drags the anvil of a bag to the tree line returning the greetings of other passengers on his way past.  Wresting it past some roots to where he's out of sight, he drops the bag on the thick layer of leaves covering the dirt where he’s out of sight just inside the trees.  

Taking a moment to get his breath he catches a whiff of just how fragrant he’s gotten in the past day but it’s nothing a change of clothes and the pilfering of Liam’s deodorant can’t improve. He undoes the sailboat strap, being sure to tie it around one of the handles.  If he loses it just because he’s too eager to find a new outfit his brother will not be pleased.  

As soon as Killian’s fingers touch the latch, the suitcase springs open.  His stomach flips as he stares at the familiar, impeccably packed clothing.  Liam wore the faded Depeche Mode shirt sitting on top of the pile only yesterday when they’d rented motorcycles and rode around the entire afternoon.  And now he could be dead, likely  _was_ dead. His throat tightened for a moment before he violently pushed down the fear clawing inside him. If he lost it now, he’s not sure he could put himself back together.

Feeling numb, he picks through the shirts before selecting a white button up and hoping his brother had packed a second belt. He grabs a pair of cargo shorts and some longer socks.  Trousers are more advisable for a trek like this, but being a few inches taller, Liam’s jeans are likely to trip him up.  Liam’s extra belt eludes him until he thinks to check a side pocket.

Killian gratefully shucks his trousers and pulls on the shorts, strapping them to him hips with the belt - he’d rather not have to try and hike with them ‘round his knees. In addition to being shorter than his brother, he has a slimmer build and is the more agile of the two.  

As he starts to button up his shirt, a woman in a scuffed-up green dress wanders into the little clearing he’s found, but he hears her intake of breath before he notices her presence.  Her copper hair is piled in a messy jumble on her head and her eyes are wide and very focused on his torso. Though in a different setting he might return her coquettish smile and offer some pointed suggestions of some enjoyable options they could pursue (he  _does_ go to the gym for a reason), his usual brand of one-night stands couldn’t be farther from the forefront of his goals.  

“Apologies.” He finishes buttoning up his shirt as quickly as possible, “I thought I’d be well enough away from everyone.”

“Oh, no,” she replies, tilting her head, continuing to run her gaze over him, “It’s my fault really.”

Killian recognizes her from the previous night and though he doesn’t know her name he thinks she’d helped Ruby with their makeshift shelters.  

“Well you’re free to wander,” he shrugs, crouching down to force the suitcase back together, “I’m going back to the beach.”

Her wide eyes still fixed on him, she nods and the air of flirtation fades, “I will see you soon, Killian.”  Icy blue eyes finally looking elsewhere, she leaves the clearing in silence, ghosting away into the trees.

Thinking her last words sounded ominous rather than coy, he waits for a moment, staring at the spot she disappeared.  She is likely as normal as the next woman, but the coolness of her scrutiny was enough for him to notice, and Killian’s learned over the years to trust his gut.  

Given there’s naught he can do about it now, he puts her firmly from his mind and sets off to look for Emma, grabbing supplies as he goes.  He borrows a backpack off of Henry, the only child of the group and is surprised when his mother doesn’t object (“I want to get off this island even faster than you, lieutenant.”)  The boy is eager to help though and has about a thousand questions about the Navy.  He promises the boy a later chat and moves on to find water.

Killian leaves his suitcase with Belle, telling her of the plan to find the black box if they discover the tail section of the plane and hopefully some sort of communication device if they find the cockpit.  He’s surprised at how worried for his safety she looks, as they have had only one conversation, but perhaps the lass is just an exceptionally kind individual.  

After many assurances that he’ll be careful and that she’s alright with assuming leadership of the other passengers, they part ways.  He feels better now that the other survivors are left in such capable care.

He weaves through various fire pits, eyes fixed on the dark clouds over the water that are drawing closer.  The sun still shines brightly above him and the sky is clear, but he has a feeling that in a tropical climate like this, storms are quick to come and end just as suddenly.

The first sign he’s nearing Emma is the sight of that god-awful suitcase and the next is laughter.  Graham, the sheriff, sits beside her with a suitcase filled with knives laid out before him.

Emma spots him first, her smile fading slightly, “Are you ready? I thought we wanted to get an early start?”

Her irritated tone is not lost on Killian.

“Apologies, it took longer than expected to find my luggage.” He says as casually as possible, her anger clearly hasn’t abated in their time apart.  

“That’s quite a few knives there,” Killian hints, eager to change the subject, counting how many lay in the case.

Graham laughs and Killian feel a touch of exasperation when Emma smiles too, “That there are, I promise I’m not metal though.  I came on holiday and went on a walkabout.”

“A walkabout?” The term sounds vaguely familiar, he’s sure he’d heard it sometime during their visit, but he’d never gotten a clear idea of what one is. 

“It’s originally from the Aborigines,” Emma speaks up, pointedly not looking at Killian, even though the explanation is for his benefit.  “You go on a journey on foot through the wilderness to discover yourself.”

“Point is,” Graham says, “I needed to find my own food and I didn’t fancy eating vegetarian for a month.”

“Makes sense,” Killian concedes.

“While we were waiting, Emma said she saw smoke in valley at the foot of the mountain, so I think that’s where we should start searching,” Graham continues.

Killian nods thoughtfully, he didn’t see any smoke yesterday, but he’s not sure how long it took Emma to find him after the crash, it could have cleared away by then.

“Sounds like a plan.” He smiles ruefully, “I’ll let one of you take the lead, I was too distracted yesterday to think of looking for signs of the other parts of the plane.”

“Well, if you’re  _letting us_ …” Emma mutters, loud enough that they both can hear here and stalks off first towards the trees, leaving the men to follow.  Despite his palpable curiosity, Killian is relieved that Graham doesn’t ask why things are so tense between Emma and him because he really doesn’t want to get into it.  Looks like his apology will have to wait until they get into the jungle.

He manages to bite his tongue for a few hours, before finally he gets an opening.  Graham is scouting up a short distance to make sure they’re still headed in the right trajectory.  Since he’s more experienced spending time out in the wilderness, Killian is happy to let him take the lead. 

“Swan?”

When she doesn’t respond, he takes a few quick steps to catch up.  

“What?” She doesn’t bother to turn around, exasperation bleeding into her tone.

Figuring this is the best window he’s going to get, he hesitantly starts, “Look, about what I said earlier -”

“I don’t care!”

“But you’re obviously angry with me, so you  _do_.  I know you do, please just hear me out and then I won’t bring it up again.”

She sighs audibly as she ducks around a large fern, “Fine.”

The fern branch catches Killian in the face but she’s moving away, so he ignores the unpleasant taste of wet frond in his mouth.  “I’m sorry for calling you a looter, I shouldn’t have assumed the bag wasn’t yours.”

She makes a noncommittal noise.

“And I’ve been told I can run my mouth when I’m upset and I got too caught up in trying to keep my mind off of…  I wasn’t as conscious of what I was saying.”

That stops her.

“So what you’re saying is, you were talking to me all this time so I could be a distraction?” Her eyes said choose carefully or he’ll be incurring further wrath.  

“No, not really, just that bit this morning I suppose but I also -” He hesitates, not sure if  _I like you_  is too forward.  He doesn’t want her to think he’s trying hit on her.

"Well, you’re welcome,” she scoffs, taking his pause as the end of his explanation, “I’m  _so happy_  to have been able to help distract you from your boredom."

“Boredom?” Killian blurts out, unable to control his disbelief, hackles on the back of his neck rising, “You think I was -” He breaks off abruptly.

Graham has finally retraced his steps to see why they are no longer following.  

“Is everything alright?” he asks, clearly picking up on the tension, taking slow and careful steps towards them as if he thinks he might need to interfere.  

 _Bloody hell_ , how has it come to this?

“It’s fine,” Killian sighs, as Emma snaps, “Just perfect.”

She pushes past Graham, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.

Killian groans, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, mate,” he says, answering Graham’s unasked question.  “I thought it was about a suitcase, so I was apologizing about the suitcase but now I’m not so sure it was about the suitcase at all.”

“Well, your relationship isn’t my business, but if you’re going to have an argument in the future, I’d save it for the beach.” Graham nods and smiles slightly, but his words hold no humor. “It’s best not to be shouting when we don’t know what’s out here.”

Killian scratches at his neck, had he really shouted?  

“We’re not together,” Killian says lamely, avoiding the man’s gaze, “But aye, this isn’t the place.”

Somehow this woman is making his blood boil such that he loses his head. He can’t be so petty as to forget his years of training over this.  He won’t let it happen again.  

The problem settled, Killian follows Graham the way Emma headed.  A bead of sweat rolls down his temple as he pushes aide wet foliage, but he doesn't bother wiping it away.  Another will only take its place.  Despite his attempt at careful vigilance, he still feels the righteous anger burning in his gut as they catch up to her.  She thought he had been  _bored_ \- his need for a distraction can’t possibly have to do with the fact that his brother is nowhere to be found and he’s unofficially shouldered the burden of caring for the other survivors.  Not only is he concerned for his own fate, but that of Henry and his mother, Ruby and her grandmother, and all of the others - including Emma.  Leading soldiers is one thing, but these are ordinary civilians who haven’t prepared for anything like this.  No, he is not  _bored_ , there is so much fear clawing at his heart that if it meant having Liam here, he’d volunteer to be bored for the rest of his days.

The more he thinks about it, staring at the back of her head when he’s not watching his feet, the more he finds himself fuming at her and the whole ridiculous situation.  He’s irritated that his apology was cut short by her assumptions (and Graham’s arrival), it’s as if she twists almost everything he says to have the worst possible connotation.

 Killian almost stops walking at the thought.  He gets the feeling that this isn't entirely about him.  There must be a reason why she’s assumed the worst of him, when the time they spent together yesterday went quite smoothly.  She certainly doesn’t seem like the type of lass to pretend to enjoy spending time with him.

 The possible insight clouds his thoughts enough that he almost walks into Emma when she stops. What is wrong with him? He needs to focus on the task at hand - his life could depend on it.  

After the self-admonishment he takes the time to look around, and sitting precariously in the clearing that lay before them is the wreck of the front section of the plane.  The three of them stand still, unsure of where to begin.

As Killian finally urges himself into motion, the cloudy skies above them open up and rain starts to fall.  Just  _bloody_  perfect.


End file.
